


The Rainbow Team

by forsakenfemicide



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Headcanon, I’m gonna do a Drabble for each and every operator!!!!, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-17 23:41:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16106204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsakenfemicide/pseuds/forsakenfemicide
Summary: The Rainbow Six base is a flurry of activity; operators are constantly moving in and out, from operation to operation, and it’s hard to slow down for a few moments. The base is full of some of the best counter-terrorist operators in the world, but they all need something to fill their time with in between jobs.This is a fic with reader-insert drabbles of various intensity for every operator. I am guaranteed to do them all, but you can always comment suggestions!





	1. Seaside Masterpiece [Timur “Glaz” Glazkov x Reader]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get some art supplies for Glaz while you’re out in Austria for a bomb diffusal.

Team Rainbow was invisible to the outside world. Only 100 souls outside of the team were aware of its existence, and so relationships beyond the team were rare. Often, to suppress urges, one-night-stands and flings were occurring on each of the bases scattered around the world. Rainbow Six was considered to be one of the most advanced and skilled of any of the individual groups in the overarching team, but the operators on the Rainbow Six base were possibly the most uninhibited. The station was situated on a tiny island off the coast of Gibraltar where quarters were close, and adrenaline just made matters worse.

The men on base often tried to seduce you if only to satiate their carnal desires, but your head was clear and your eyes fixated on one man in particular. His name was Timur Glazkov, more often known by Glaz, and he was different from the rest. All of the men on base were entirely capable of getting serious when it was needed, but Glaz almost always seemed serious, if not polite and quiet. It intrigued you, and although he talked little, you managed to open casual conversation with him.

In between hostage situations and bomb-diffusals, you came to enjoy the moments of peace and comfort gleaned from easy conversation with Glaz. He was often cleaning his rifle or staring out into the ocean from the walkways on base, feeling the salty spray of the Mediterranean on his face. Although it was hard to get a word out of him in the mess hall, he always had profound things to say when you got him alone. He had mentioned once that he wished he could have gone to school for art, and that it had been so long since he had even picked up a paintbrush. This made you sad because you saw the fire ignite in his crystal blue eyes when he talked about colors and paint strokes.

Such inexplicable sadness was your sole reason for returning from a mission in Innsbrück, Austria with canvases and acrylics and paintbrushes overflowing in your arms. Glaz was exempt from the task, so you sought him out as soon as your feet touched the landing pad of the Gibraltar base.

Glaz was sitting where he usually was, his feet hanging over the edge of a building and his arms holding himself up behind him. He stared out into the ocean, watching the sun bleed over the choppy waves and drench the sky with holy fire.

You did your best to sneak behind Glaz, moving on the balls of your feet, but he turned his head to survey you after only a few steps. You paused, smiled at him, and then strode closer.

He said your name with a hint of a smile. “I hope your mission went well,” he murmured earnestly, tone tinted with relief.

“It went great,” you answered with a smile and settled beside him with an awkward shift of your gait, weighed down by your gifts.

“Canvases?” Glaz queried, gaze locked on your precious cargo. Nothing got past him.

You nod with a proud smile.

“Paints and brushes too? Who are those for?” Glaz questioned further.

“What, are you saying I can’t paint?” you wondered with mock offense, although a stream of bubbly laughter shortly after betrayed you.

“Well, no,” Glaz admitted with a lofty smile, infected by your own. “It just seems like an odd hobby for you. I could teach you if you’d like to learn.”

The idea was tempting and made your cheeks go red, but you waved it away with a quick hand. You were still smiling, eager to place the art supplies into Glaz’s calloused fingers.

“I’d love to, but these are for you actually,” you revealed, and then quickly settled them in his arms. He numbly curled his biceps around to hold the canvases and balance the acrylics and brushes atop them, although his face was shell-shocked. You laughed at his gaping expression.

“Just for me?” Glaz asked as if confirming they were indeed his.

“Of course, Glaz,” you answered with a smile that grew fonder as time passed. “Who else?”

Glaz turned to fully face you, eyes wide and mouth stumbling to find the correct words. For a few seconds he only spoke quick, flustered Russian, and then translated into English. “Thank you so much,” he expressed his gratitude with a deep bow of his head and placed his hand on your shoulder. It burned a hole there, spreading warmth through your body and jolting through your fingers.

You looked at his face as he looked back up, and then at the mystifying blue of his eyes. Drunk from the look of complete and utter thankfulness in his eyes, you became brave.

“You’re welcome,” you murmured, then leaned forward and pressed your lips to his cheek, dangerously close to his lips.

You pulled away, the moment having lasted too short. You turned from him, cheeks heating up in the bitter Gibraltar cold and mind racing with embarrassment. You were sure you just ruined your introspective friendship and that Glaz would leave uncomfortable. You cursed yourself for even entertaining the idea that Glaz might come to see you as anything more than a friend.

You heard Glaz set down the art supplies, but you didn’t spare a glance until Glaz placed his fingers on your jaw. His touch was gentle as he tugged your face to turn, a suggestion rather than a force. You came face-to-face with him, lighting crackling like a whip between the two of you before Glaz closed the distance.

His lips met yours in a tentative dance. They were cold from steadily approaching night, but the way you moved against each other saw enough friction to warm every part of your body quickly. Your eyes fluttered closed, and Glaz’s fingers on your jaw came to caress your cheek.

Lost in each other's embrace, you only pulled away for air. You breathed heavily, and your cheeks grew hot as you stared back into Glaz’s eyes. He pecked your lips again, and then there was silence.

You smiled, and he smiled back, eyes half-closed and euphoric. Nothing could break the moment.

“That was nice,” you murmur breathlessly, and Glaz nods, suddenly at a loss for words.

“Thank you again,” Glaz said earnestly, cheeks ruddy not just from the biting wind of night in Gibraltar. With that, he rose to his feet, hauling up his new art supplies with him. He cast one last sweeping glance towards the Mediterranean, then turned back to you.

“Maybe tonight we can experiment with some different art techniques in my room,” Glaz offered with a sultry wink, and then he was gone.

The innuendo was not lost. Your body shivered at the mere idea, and you clutched your knees close to your chest, screaming softly into your arms. The situation could not have gone better, and only made you eager for the sun to fall faster.


	2. Dying Light (Doc x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are hit by a few bullets during an operation and you need to tell Doc a few things before you die.

It was supposed to be an easy job.

You understood your line of work always carried risks but compared to some of the jobs Six made you carry out, this one was supposed to go off without a hitch. Get into the Vinciguerra’s Villa, acquire the necessary intel, and get out. The Vinciguerras were said to have scattered a while ago once they got wind of your plans, but with their connections with the White Masks, it should have been abundantly clear that something would go awry.

The first sign that there was something going wrong was Valkyrie shouting over comms that her cameras were picking up droves of White Masks advancing on the team. Considering you were tucked away in the library with Jäger, Smoke, and Doc, this wasn’t an immediate threat, but it was concerning nonetheless.

You began to search the documents more frantically. There was an abundance of correspondence between the Vinciguerras, their crime syndicate, and the White Masks, but it was all hidden in between shelves and in the dusty pages of books left undisturbed for years. You could only get so much, and you could only hold out so long before the team would be forced to make an exit.

The second sign that something was wrong was Doc putting a cartridge into his stim pistol beside you. You had come to intimately know the Frenchman, and you knew that he was always prepared for anything, so seeing him pre-load his pistol made your stomach sink. Your actions became frenzied.

Then Jäger and Smoke began yelling incomprehensible orders at each other through their earpieces, accompanied by the sound of gunfire beneath the buzz. Bullet casings clattered to the ground and your hands began to shake. At some point, Doc started to help you sort through the files, and even placed his hand over yours at one point to calm it down.

Doc’s quick fix worked for a few moments, but you immediately began shaking again when Jäger announced that the White Masks were advancing and that you needed to get out. You shoved what you could into your briefcase allotted for the mission and stumbled to your feet. Doc gathered up his own supplies and was breaking through a barricaded doorway into the main exit when Jäger and Smoke were pushed back by three White Masks coming from the gallery and the piano room. Your heartbeat heavily in your chest as you gripped at fine mahogany bookcases and tables in your mad dash for the exit.

A crack rang through the air and a searing flash of pain erupted in your right shoulder. You stumbled and cried out in pain, but you didn’t drop the briefcase. You placed your left hand over your bullet wound and placed pressure on it, weathering the fire and pushing on.

You saw the sunlight splash the villa’s walls from an open doorway already thundered through by the rest of the team and you lunge towards it, only to feel another bullet tear through your stomach. Heat bloomed in your torso and you finally collapsed, hands numb and consciousness waning but fingers still gripped tightly around the handle of the briefcase. You saw black tinge the edges of your vision and the faint sunlight fade to grey. The cacophonous rancor around you faded to a dull buzz, individual sounds, and noises indiscernible from each other. Colors and shapes, large and blurry, merged together before your eyes. You struggled to stay awake, only hanging on to the shouting in your earpiece.

There was another prick near where your neck met your collarbone, but it didn’t burn like a bullet. You looked up and saw the cartridge Doc had loaded before the firefight stuck in your vein, transmitting vital amounts of adrenaline. You felt it course through your body, racing through every synapse and nerve. It wouldn’t prevent you from bleeding out, but it was enough for you to get up and get out of there.

You rose to your knees from your hands, palms splashing in your own blood, and rose to your legs from there. There were footsteps behind you, frantic and desperate, but you never spared a glance over your shoulder. You focused on Doc’s face poking through the main exit and stumbled towards him, clutching your stomach with your left hand and dragging the briefcase along with your right. 

You tripped away from the villa and fumbled into Jäger, who steadied you with a large hand. Behind you, Doc slammed the door close and raced away from it, escaping the Whitemask’s pounding fists in their attempt to break down the splintered mahogany. You tried to follow after him, but Jäger’s arm caught you and he threw you unceremoniously over his shoulder. You did not struggle or move, knowing you would only slow him down and diminish your chances for a successful escape.

The world passed by in a flurry of colors, the grimy tiled ground merging into the vibrant green of passing trees. You grew dizzy, but you couldn’t tell if it was because of the abrupt motions around you or your rapid blood loss. Doc’s shot of adrenaline was beginning to wear off quickly, and with each passing moment, another potent spark of pain made its way to your conscious brain.

Jäger jostled you for a moment more before tossing you to the ground behind an overturned car. You cried out in agony, fire searing through your torso and consuming your body. You clutched at the bullet hole in your stomach, using as much pressure as your arms could manage to slow the bleeding. Jäger left you there in favor of aiding Smoke in clearing out the troops of White Masks advancing on your position, soon joined by Valkyrie once she had secured her own escape from the Villa. Within a moment, Doc was at your side, pressing his hands over your stomach and moving your own out of the way.

“Slow the bleeding,” Doc ordered you, his French accent much thicker in the heat of battle. “On your shoulder.”

You did as commanded of you, pressing as hard as you could with your left hand, but hot blood flowed from the wound freely. It stained your hands a deep crimson red and looking down, it stained Doc’s too, even more so now that he was actively trying to keep it in. Your kevlon was torn apart, ripped at the seams by advanced technology on the enemy’s side. It now dawned upon you that this might be your last moments on earth.

You tried to move your right arm, but upon finding it numb and useless from the hole on the shoulder, you instead placed your left hand over Doc’s. He looked up at you, prepared to scold you for not heeding his command, but paused upon seeing your expression.

“Gustave,” you croaked, blood bubbling at the back of your throat. Doc seemed mildly surprised, and even frightened, that you were using his real name instead of an arbitrary call name. “This might be the end for me.”

“Don’t say that,” Gustave reprimanded you, but not harshly, his own heart breaking from the dire implication. “You’re going to get back to base in one piece.”

You shook your head back and forth, then coughed a bit. The phlegm at the back of your throat came up in bloody chunks all over your chest, an ominous sign for your fate. Gustave’s eyebrows caved.

“Gustave,” you repeated upon seeing his focus wander towards the possibilities, remembering that you would have liked to say something to him earlier in less grim circumstances. “I love you.”

Gustave’s shoulders slumped significantly upon hearing this and the pressure on your stomach alleviated briefly before returning in full force upon seeing more blood pouring from under his hands. He looked to have been about to say something until he noticed your eyelids growing heavy.

You struggled to focus on him, but black continued to encroach on the edges of your vision and you began to lose track of your limbs. It felt like boulders had stepped onto your eyelids and were dragging them down, to the point where you were forced to flutter them to keep them open. Sleep beckoned to you, an oasis where the pain was nonexistent and you did not have to say goodbye to the people you loved.

Gustave yelled your name. “You have to stay awake,” he cried, desperate and anguished.

You dearly wished to stay awake for just a little longer, but a deep wave of darkness whisked you away and left Gustave in the distance. Just like that, you were gone, drowning in the depths of a racing black stream.

\---

You awoke with a start, staring at the ceiling of a pure white room and watching the fluorescent light flicker and buzz. You were imbibed with an elaborate set of tubes, running from your wrists and feeding into pressurized tanks and blood packs. You could only tell you were in the Gibraltar Base infirmary from the vague crash of waves beneath the hum of medical machines.

Your first impulse was to begin tearing the tubes away from your skin, finding them egregious and too complicated for your liking. Just as soon as you began to move your left arm, a hand flashed forwards and held it down forcefully.

You looked up. Gustave stood there, staring down at you. He was stripped of all his gear, his weaponry, his tools, and now stood as an exhausted doctor relieved to finally see his patient alive. He had bags under his tired brown eyes, shaken but filled with awe, in wonder of the thaumaturgy before him. His hair was ruffled and unkempt, his fingers shaky, and his sense of calm disrupted, but he stared down at you with enough care to erase the past few days.

You were suddenly stricken by a wave of quiet, aching pain, thudding behind your eyes. It grew weakly in your right shoulder, traveled through your back, and erupted in your stomach, a trite experience in your time since the attack on the Villa. The bed you must have tossed and turned in for days was disheveled and uncomfortable from bedsores and your skin around your shoulder and abdomen black and blue from bruising. It suddenly occurred to you that you could have faded away and had never noticed. You realized then that you had confessed true, albeit desperate, things to Gustave in what you thought to be your final moments.

You looked back up to him and opened your mouth to say something, but he cupped your cheeks and leaned his head in. “I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispered, guttural and raw.

“Thank you,” you rumbled back, unable to find the right words to express the overflow of admiration and joy that you would be able to spend another day on Earth with Gustave. “Thank you for saving my life, Gustave. Thank you for caring.”

“How could I not care?” Gustave breathed, closing his eyes and basking in the sound of your voice, even if rough from disuse.

He opened his eyes suddenly and smiled, a calm, languid prickle at the corners of his mouth. He said your name, a gentle whisper lost to the buzz of fluorescent light.

You opened your eyes too and stared into his, lost in a pool of dark chocolate. “Yeah?”

“I love you too.”

Your heart exploded with pure, unadulterated love. You immediately pressed a smile to his lips, content to breath in his musk and kiss him softly because you knew how much you could have lost. You had stared into the void, and seeing what nothing looked like just made you appreciate the things you had all the better.


End file.
